


Sleeping Together

by TheBraveHobbit, theharellan



Series: I Have Found a Home (Ian x Solas) [6]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Domestic Fluff, Fluff, M/M, Other, Sleepy Cuddles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-17
Updated: 2017-11-17
Packaged: 2019-02-03 12:44:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,046
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12748566
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheBraveHobbit/pseuds/TheBraveHobbit, https://archiveofourown.org/users/theharellan/pseuds/theharellan
Summary: Let me lay beside you, and I will fall asleep as I kiss promises into your skin. Solas & Ian Lavellan cuddle in bed.





	Sleeping Together

**Author's Note:**

> Iander Lavellan is penned by dalishfreckles. This is part of a series of drabbles & roleplays about the relationship between their (non-Inquisitor) Lavellan and Solas as interpreted by myself. This is a repost of two drabbles, written in response to one another. Breaks represent a change in POV. Canon divergent.

Hips slide back on the bed, matching up with Ian’s beneath cotton covers. His back curves until it touches the small of Ian’s chest. His love’s breath is measured– every inhale squeezes them tighter together, each exhale billows warm air across bare shoulders. “Are you comfortable?” Solas asks, voice half-muffled by the sound of a feather pillow. Ian shifts when he asks, bare feet tucking under the blankets to protect themselves from the mountain air that persists even within Skyhold’s wall.

“Mmm,” comes his answer.

“I only ask because–”

“I’ll tell you if it becomes uncomfortable, Solas.” The cold tip of a freckled nose nuzzles against the nape of his neck. “I could be a bit warmer.”

Neither mention the open window. It faces east, towards the dawn that awaits the end of a dark night. Closing it would warm the room, perhaps take an edge off the bumps that shiver down their spines, but walls press in on Ian. Without a word in reply, Solas closes his eyes. Magic flutters in his ribcage, rippling to the surface of his skin. It covers him like a second skin, and the body pressed to his back cuddles closer with a quiet hum of gratitude.

A silence settles between what little space lies between them. Against his back a heartbeat quickens, as it often does before Ian leans in for a kiss. That night he feels no lips against him, however, but prying fingers that smooth over his shoulders. Freckles dust his skin, not nearly so bright as his love’s, but distinct enough for Ian to trace patterns between them. In the wake of his touch Solas catches the shape of a tree, the outline of bare branches that remain etched in his memory long after the warm trail vanishes.

Eyelashes fall against his cheek, his breath coming in steady strokes. He prefers it this way, though he has yet to admit it. Their ankles tangle under the covers, anchoring him to a world that scarcely feels real. It is safe, secure– a sanctuary he had not asked for, hadn’t realised he needed ‘til Ian’s arms were draped around him. Few things about this world are right, but he is. Reality presses in on him, even as he begins to slip through the Veil, and yet for once it does not choke him.

The last thing he feels before the Fade claims him are whispered words of love mumbled against his shoulder, and sealed with a kiss.

* * *

They fit together with natural ease, as though the space filled by Solas had never been vacant. Solas presses back, and Ian presses forward, and nothing separates them beside the span of his own exhale, caving his chest to force unwelcome distance. He scoots against the mattress until breath comes only in shallow care, until his skin never breaks away from Solas’s back.

A crooked elbow pillows his head, but he leans into his love’s neck, nosing into the curve of his spine where it meets his neck. He is small, thin against the broad span of Solas’s shoulders, but he fits here, snuggled so close, with his arm draped across Solas’s waist, their fingers lazily knotted as they slowly drift from this reality and into dreams.

“Are you comfortable?” Solas asks, and the question is almost lost to the murmur of rustling blankets and creased pillows. His feet catch against Solas’s ankles as they duck beneath the quilt, seeking sanctuary from the brisk air that fills the room. He is comfortable. He is more than comfortable. Comfort is a simple thing, to be sought in sun-bathed cobbles and warm patches of garden earth. Comfort is spiced wine and a full pipe and a book propped against his knees. This is not comfort, this is something else. Comfort is something that can be sought, and this is something that merely is, and it is in a way that cannot be compared to something so simple as comfort.

He doesn’t voice his thoughts, too drowsy to express in words what can barely be measured with thought. The language of the heart does not easily translate to any tongue he knows, and so his answer comes in a quiet hum, contentment rising from his chest to thrum against warm skin.

“I only ask because–”

Ian doesn’t move, doesn’t shift again, doesn’t so much as open his eyes. He breathes, out and in, and Solas smells of crisp magic, and of paint and ink and books and sun and skin and Solas and it is the only scent in the world that matters to him.

“I’ll tell you if it becomes uncomfortable, Solas.” His head slides, nose running across Solas’s spine as he tucks his face further into the gap between shoulder and pillow. He breathes again, hesitating to mention the only discomfort he has. It’s his own fault that chills bubble his skin, that the room is cool with mountain air. Any other room in Skyhold would be warm, heated from the depths of the castle as the stones soaked up roaring hearths. But the window steals what warmth might gather here, and two blankets are only enough to hold the night at bay. It’s his own doing, that he is cold, and when he confesses, “I could be a bit warmer,” it is in a whisper, half hoping Solas will not hear.

He must have heard, however, because heat rises to radiate from pale skin. It bathes Ian in gentle warmth, and he hums again as he leans into his love. He draws his hand back, catching briefly at the hitch of Solas’s hips, and his fingers travel up. Even with his eyes closed, he can see the span of freckles, the dusting of faint stars against his love’s skin. He breathes, and his fingers trace sleepy patterns, and he breathes, and his hand falls until it is reclaimed, loosely cradled in Solas’s own, and he breathes, and his lips are pressed into a dusting of stars and he’s more than comfortable, he’s in love. The language of the heart cannot express itself thoroughly in any tongue known to him, but that doesn’t stop him from trying, and he kisses the words into Solas’s skin even as he follows him into dreams.


End file.
